


all this tension, where's it going to go?

by cighail



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Gen, M/M, an attempt to be humorous, clarine is angry, i don't really know why she's angry, i just thought this was really funny so it now exists, if its not humor is subjective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 17:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15562758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cighail/pseuds/cighail
Summary: Headcanon where Clarine, being the young, Etrurian noble she is, is miffed (and slightly grossed out) by the PDA of all the boyes, though that may simply be because she's is terribly jealous. (and still thinking about that one disappointing hand-kiss from Lance.)Clarine had never thought the day would come where something would irk her more than the tardiness of young, unruly soldiers cooped together at a campsite just as dank and sweaty as them. Of course, waking up to the sight of poorly dressed men running between tents at the crack of dawn would make the Etrurian noble in her shudder with fear, but that itself was no contest to… this.





	all this tension, where's it going to go?

**Author's Note:**

> clarine is probably my favourite character of the series
> 
> this was gonna be a series but i got tired omg

**Dinner is poorly served**

A soft cough left the mouth of their travelling bard. Currently she was seated between her noble brother Klein and the only other person in this army still concerned about his appearance. Though a small part of her admitted that she had been more drawn to the man’s familiar golden hair than other things, Elffin did tidy up quite nicely. Of course there were times when his outfits could be disagreeable but she couldn’t blame a (sporadically?)-blind man at the warfront, could she?

 

“General Perceval,” said man spoke up quietly, voice asking a timid question. “You must be tired from today’s battle. Would a ballad soothe your soul?”

The general Perceval ( _General_ , Clarine snorted, _as if title alone grants such a distinction, while clearly manners do not maketh this man_ ) held his gaze across flickering flames as their eyes locked, a hand resting on each knee as if ready to spring up at any moment. There was something in his eyes - a smoulder, deep intensity that spoke past his silence, the longing in his neutral brow that the campfire hid between snaking red and orange tongues. 

“Perhaps,” He said, voice close to hoarse. “After dinner is served.”   
  
“Of course.” Elffin nodded. He looked away - for a second his eyes flickered impatience - but they settled on the hard bark of the log they were sitting on, fingers running over the grain gently as if it were skin.

 

Clarine rolled her eyes. May as well have been.

 

Perceval’s eyes didn’t waver; they held strong despite Lance’s awkward cough and quick glance to the boiling pot where Saul stood with Larum, who gazed so intently into the food cooking there that she may as well have been the fire that boiled it into stew. If only these two stares were comparable. If only Larum were here, staring at soup, instead of meters away from unspoken sexual frustration.

“Perhaps,” Clarine said starkly, “You should be excused.”   
  
“I’m waiting for my dinner.” His retort was piercingly authoritative yet husky and rough in quality, and - by Elimine - it was _soft,_ and Clarine swore she saw Elffin clear his throat loudly as he shifted in his tunic. 

 

General Cecilia - sitting next to the blonde general - hovered her hand over Perceval’s shoulder and trembled like the armour was almost volatile. His eyes did not stray from their path and with a steady breath she set her fingers down across his shoulder plate.

“Perceval.” She sighed, “I must be blunt with you: he’s going to die under that awful gaze of yours.”   
  
“I’ll pay no mind to it.” Elffin said quickly, heat flaring in his cheeks the moment the words left his mouth. Perceval’s brow raised and the bard ducked his head instinctively. Wolt whispered something to Roy; most likely that Elffin’s blushing cheeks had begun to match the shade of his lord’s bright red hair.

“Yes, P- Elffin,” Cecilia brought her other hand to her face, where it pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Of course-” she broke off into a defeated mutter, “of course you don’t care.”  


Clarine rolled her eyes again. It had to be stopped.

“Lord Floyd,” She said abruptly to Roy (who by now had become so accustomed to the name that he had adopted it as one of his aliases) “Although I must sacrifice this excellent spot between two courteous gentlemen, I insist Perceval and I switch seats.”

“What?” Roy looked at her, face lit up with astonishment. “Sure, but I’m… surprised by the suggestion.”   
“There’s no need.” Elffin tried to assure, smiling gently, but Clarine waved the smile away.

“There is a need.” She replied hotly. “There is a great need, else I shall walk away this instant. If I shouldeat my food, it will be eaten where my eyes cannot see this-” she gestured wildly, “this…” then her eyes flickered to the manakee Fae, who sat innocently between Roy’s legs, and her mind ran through a series of bad and equally inappropriate synonyms, “ _sensual_ _constipation_.” 

 

Cecilia stifled a snort of laughter behind her glove. Wolt hacked an enormous cough right into the flames, where they wavered from an sudden gust of wind. The flyer beside him broke into a slight snigger as she thumped the archer’s back with a loud clap of her hand, the elegance of her class temporarily reduced to crude laughter.

 

Elffin buried his face into his arms.

“ _Oh, Saint Elimine, forgive me_.” His words muffled against the skin of his arms. Perceval remained unfazed. It was as if he were a statue and bard Elffin was the Medusa who held him captive in her (his?) alluring snake-gaze. 

 

Except there were no snakes. This was no myth; it was all horribly real. 

 

“Why is this funny?” Clarine said indignantly, raising her hands. “I see no hilarity in this. The sun has set and my hands are empty, and leader Roy cannot understand why General Perceval wishes to stare into the depths of Elffin’s eyes like he wants to consume him,”

“Maybe I-” Perceval started and General Cecilia clapped him so hard in the back it was as if she had used a Bolting tome on him. He toppled off the log ungracefully. Wolt barked a laugh.

 

“We are in the presence of _children_ , Perceval.” She said sharply, masking her grin with a half-hearted grimace. He muttered an apology as he rubbed his sore back; should a bruise arise from that beating, he allowed himself that punishment.

“She is _hundreds_ of years old.” He grumbled but kept his voice out of the manakee’s earshot.

 

When dinner was finally served ( _Finally_ , Clarine said, _finally, by Elimine, this smells abhorrent and I love it so_ ) Clarine gathered her skirt and got up so quickly from her seat that Saul scrambled backwards like a corrupt priest being attacked by the homeless. He must’ve been accustomed to that routine, because the simile suited him perfectly. 

“Have a seat, Clarine,” he said, holding the plate up high. “I’ll be with you shortly,-”  
  
“ _I will have it now_.” She seethed, and he made no further attempts to resist as she grabbed the food from his hands. “Unladylike as this seems, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for my actions and they will be forgiven.”   


She left so quickly Roy swore he saw a storm of leaves in her wake.

 

“Huh.” He noted. “Maybe her dress was damp from cleaning.”  
“No, Master Roy,” Wolt snorts, “I’m sure it was just fine.”


End file.
